MY AUNT MARGARET'S MIRROR.
"There are times When Fancy plays her gambols, in despite Even of our watchful senses, when in sooth Substance seems shadow, shadow substance seems When the broad, palpabale, and mark'd partition 'Twixt that which is and is not, seems dissolved As if the mental eye gain'd power to gaze Beyond the limits of the existing world. Such hours of shadowy dreams I better love Than all the gross realities of life." ANONYMOUS.
My Aunt Margaret was one of that respected sisterhood, upon whomdevolve all the trouble and solicitude incidental to the possession ofchildren, excepting only that which attends their entrance into theworld. We were a large family, of very different dispositions andconstitutions. Some were dull and peevish--they were sent to AuntMargaret to be amused; some were rude, romping, and boisterous--theywere sent to Aunt Margaret to be kept quiet, or rather that their noisemight be removed out of hearing: those who were indisposed were sentwith the prospect of being nursed--those who were stubborn, with thehope of their being subdued by the kindness of Aunt Margaret'sdiscipline; in short, she had all the various duties of a mother,without the credit and dignity of the maternal character. The busyscene of her various cares is now over--of the invalids and the robust,the kind and the rough, the peevish and pleased children, who throngedher little parlour from morning to night, not one now remains alive butmyself; who, afflicted by early infirmity, was one of the most delicateof her nurslings, yet nevertheless, have outlived them all.
It is still my custom, and shall be so while I have the use of mylimbs, to visit my respected relation at least three times a-week. Herabode is about half a mile from the suburbs of the town in which Ireside; and is accessible, not only by the high-road, from which itstands at some distance, but by means of a greensward footpath, leadingthrough some pretty meadows. I have so little left to torment me inlife, that it is one of my greatest vexations to know that several ofthese sequestered fields have been devoted as sites for building. Inthat which is nearest the town, wheelbarrows have been at work forseveral weeks in such numbers, that, I verily believe, its wholesurface, to the depth of at least eighteen inches, was mounted in thesemonotrochs at the same moment, and in the act of being transported fromone place to another. Huge triangular piles of planks are also rearedin different parts of the devoted messuage; and a little group oftrees, that still grace the eastern end, which rises in a gentleascent, have just received warning to quit, expressed by a daub ofwhite paint, and are to give place to a curious grove of chimneys.
It would, perhaps, hurt others in my situation to reflect that thislittle range of pasturage once belonged to my father, (whose family wasof some consideration in the world,) and was sold by patches to remedydistresses in which he involved himself in an attempt by commercialadventure to redeem, his diminished fortune. While the building schemewas in full operation, this circumstance was often pointed out to me bythe class of friends who are anxious that no part of your misfortunesshould escape your observation. "Such pasture-ground!--lying at thevery town's end--in turnips and potatoes, the parks would bring 20_l_.per acre, and if leased for building--Oh, it was a gold mine!--And allsold for an old song out of the ancient possessor's hands!" Mycomforters cannot bring me to repine much on this subject. If I couldbe allowed to look back on the past without interruption, I couldwillingly give up the enjoyment of present income, and the hope offuture profit, to those who have purchased what my father sold. Iregret the alteration of the ground only because it destroysassociations, and I would more willingly (I think) see the Earl'sCloses in the hands of strangers, retaining their silvan appearance,than know them for my own, if torn up by agriculture, or covered withbuildings. Mine are the sensations of poor Logan:
"The horrid plough has rased the green Where yet a child I stray'd; The axe has fell'd the hawthorn screen, The schoolboy's summer shade."
I hope, however, the threatened devastation will not be consummated inmy day. Although the adventurous spirit of times short while sincepassed gave rise to the undertaking, I have been encouraged to think,that the subsequent changes have so far damped the spirit ofspeculation, that the rest of the woodland footpath leading to AuntMargaret's retreat will be left undisturbed for her time and mine. I aminterested in this, for every step of the way, after I have passedthrough the green already mentioned, has for me something of earlyremembrance :--There is the stile at which I can recollect a crosschild's-maid upbraiding me with my infirmity, as she lifted me coarselyand carelessly over the flinty steps, which my brothers traversed withshout and bound. I remember the suppressed bitterness of the mo-ment,and, conscious of my own inferiority, the feeling of envy with which Iregarded the easy movements and elastic steps of my more happily formedbrethren. Alas! these goodly barks have all perished on life's wideocean, and only that which seemed so little seaworthy, as the navalphrase goes, has reached the port when the tempest is over. Then thereis the pool, where, manoeuvring our little navy, constructed out of thebroad water flags, my elder brother fell in, and was scarce saved fromthe watery element to die under Nelson's banner. There is the hazelcopse also, in which my brother Henry used to gather nuts, thinkinglittle that he was to die in an Indian jungle in quest of rupees.
There is so much more of remembrance about the little walk, that--as Istop, rest on my crutch-headed cane, and look round with that speciesof comparison between the thing I was and that which I now am--italmost induces me to doubt my own identity; until I find myself in faceof the honeysuckle porch of Aunt Margaret's dwelling, with itsirregularity of front, and its odd projecting latticed windows; wherethe workmen seem to have made a study that no one of them shouldresemble another, in form, size, or in the old-fashioned stoneentablature and labels which adorn them. This tenement, once themanor-house of Earl's Closes, we still retain a slight hold upon; for,in some family arrangements, it had been settled upon Aunt Margaretduring the term of her life. Upon this frail tenure depends, in a greatmeasure, the last shadow of the family of Bothwell of Earl's Closes,and their last slight connection with their paternal inheritance. Theonly representative will then be an infirm old man, moving notunwillingly to the grave, which has devoured all that were dear to hisaifections.
When I have indulged such thoughts for a minute or two, I enter themansion, which is said to have been the gatehouse only of the originalbuilding, and find one being on whom time seems to have made littleimpression; for the Aunt Margaret of to-day bears the same proportionalago to the Aunt Margaret of my early youth, that the boy of ten yearsold does to the man of (by'r Lady!) some fifty-six years. The oldlady's invariable costume has doubtless some share in confirming one inthe opinion, that time has stood still with Aunt Margaret.
The brown or chocolate-coloured silk gown, with ruffles of the samestuff at the elbow, within which are others of Mechlin lace--the blacksilk gloves, or mitts, the white hair combed back upon a roll, and thecap of spotless cambric, which closes around the venerable countenance,as they were not the costume of 1780, so neither were they that of1826; they are altogether a style peculiar to the individual AuntMargaret. There she still sits, as she sat thirty years since, with herwheel or the stocking, which she works by the fire in winter, and bythe window in summer; or, perhaps, venturing as far as the porch in anunusually fine summer evening. Her frame, like some well-constructedpiece of mechanics, still performs the operations for which it hadseemed destined; going its round with an activity which is graduallydiminished, yet indicating no probability that it will soon come to aperiod.
The solicitude and affection which had made Aunt Margaret the willingslave to the inflictions of a whole nursery, have now for their objectthe health and comfort of one old and infirm man, the last remainingrelative of her family, and the only one who can still find interest inthe traditional stores which she hoards as some miser hides the goldwhich he desires that no one should enjoy after his death.
My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little either tothe present or t
o the future: for the passing day we possess as much aswe require, and we neither of us wish for more; and for that which isto follow we have on this side of the grave neither hopes, nor fears,nor anxiety. We therefore naturally look back to the past; and forgetthe present fallen fortunes and declined importance of our family, inrecalling the hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.
With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of AuntMargaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the followingconversation and narrative.
Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the oldlady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by her withall her usual affection and benignity; while, at the same time, sheseemed abstracted and disposed to silence. I asked her the reason."They have been clearing out the old chapel," she said; "JohnClayhudgeons having, it seems, discovered that the stuff within--being,I suppose, the remains of our ancestors--was excellent for top-dressingthe meadows."
Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for someyears; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand upon mysleeve, "The chapel has been long considered as common ground, my dear,and used for a penfold, and what objection can we have to the man foremploying what is his own, to his own profit? Besides, I did speak tohim, and he very readily and civilly promised, that, if he found bonesor monuments, they should be carefully respected and reinstated; andwhat more could I ask? So, the first stone they found bore the name ofMargaret Bothwell, 1585, and I have caused it to be laid carefullyaside, as I think it betokens death; and having served my namesake twohundred years, it has just been cast up in time to do me the same goodturn. My house has been long put in order, as far as the small earthlyconcerns require it, but who shall say that their account with Heavenis sufficiently revised?"
"After what you have said, aunt," I replied, "perhaps I ought to takemy hat and go away, and so I should, but that there is on this occasiona little alloy mingled with our devotion. To think of death at alltimes is a duty--to suppose it nearer, from the finding of an oldgravestone, is superstition; and you, with your strong useful commonsense, which was so long the prop of a fallen family, are the lastperson whom I should have suspected of such weakness."
"Neither would I have deserved your suspicions, kinsman" answered AuntMargaret, "if we were speaking of any incident occurring in the actualbusiness of human life. But for all this I have a sense of superstitionabout me, which I do not wish to part with. It is a feeling whichseparates me from this age, and links me with that to which I amhastening; and even when it seems, as now, to lead me to the brink ofthe grave, and bids me gaze on it, I do not love that it should bedispelled. It soothes my imagination, without influencing my reason orconduct."
"I profess, my good lady," replied I, "that had any one but you madesuch a declaration, I should have thought it as capricious as that ofthe clergyman, who, without vindicating his false reading, preferred,from habit's sake, his old Mumpsimus to the modern Sumpsimus."
"Well," answered my aunt, "I must explain my inconsistency in thisparticular, by comparing it to another. I am, as you know, a piece ofthat old-fashioned thing called a Jacobite; but I am so in sentimentand feeling only; for a more loyal subject never joined in prayers, forthe health and wealth of George the Fourth, whom God long preserve! ButI dare say that kind-hearted sovereign would not deem that an old womandid him, much injury if she leaned back in her arm-chair, just in sucha twilight as this, and thought of the high-mettled men, whose sense ofduty called them to arms against his grandfather; and how, in a causewhich they deemed that of their rightful prince and country,
'They fought till their hands to the broadsword were glued, They fought against fortune with hearts unsubdued.'
do not come at such a moment, when my head is full of plaids, pibrochs,and claymores, and ask my reason to admit what, I am afraid, it cannotdeny--I mean, that the public advantage peremptorily demanded thatthese things should cease to exist. I cannot, indeed, refuse to allowthe justice of your reasoning; but yet, being convinced against mywill, you will gain little by your motion. You might as well read to aninfatuated lover the catalogue of his mistress's imperfections; for,when he has been compelled to listen to the summary, you will only getfor answer, that, 'he lo'es her a' the better.'"
I was not sorry to have changed the gloomy train of Aunt Margaret'sthoughts, and replied in the same tone, "Well, I can't help beingpersuaded that our good king is the more sure of Mrs. Bothwell's loyalaffection, that he has the Stuart right of birth, as well as the Act ofSuccession in his favour."
"Perhaps my attachment, were its source of consequence, might be foumdwarmer for the union of the rights you mention," said Aunt Margaret?"but, upon my word, it would be as sincere if the king's right werefounded only on the will of the nation, as declared at the Revolution.I am none of your _jure divino_ folk."
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding."
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding; or rather, I will give you leave tocall me one of the party which, in Queen Anne's time, were called_Whimsicals_; because they were sometimes operated upon by feelings,sometimes by principle. After all, it is very hard that you will notallow an old woman to be as inconsistent in her political sentiments,as mankind in general show themselves in all the various courses oflife; since you cannot point out one of them, in which the passions andprejudices of those who pursue it are not perpetually carrying us awayfrom the path which our reason points out."
"True, aunt; but you are a wilful wanderer, who should be forced backinto the right path."
"Spare me, I entreat you," replied Aunt Margaret. "You remember theGaelic song, though I dare say I mispronounce the words--
'Hatil mohatil, na dowski mi.' 'I am asleep, do not waken me.'
I tell you, kinsman, that the sort of waking dreams which myimagination spins out, in what your favourite Wordsworth calls 'moodsof my own mind,' are worth all the rest of my more active days. Then,instead of looking forwards as I did in youth, and forming for myselffairy palaces, upon the verge of the grave, I turn my eyes backwardupon the days and manners of my better time; and the sad, yet soothingrecollections come so close and interesting, that I almost think itsacrilege to be wiser, or more rational, or less prejudiced, than thoseto whom I looked up in my younger years."
"I think I now understand what you mean," I answered, "and cancomprehend why you should occasionally prefer the twilight of illusionto the steady light of reason."
"Where there is no task," she rejoined, "to be performed, we may sit inthe dark if we like it--if we go to work, we must ring for candles."
"And amidst such shadowy and doubtful light," continued I, "imaginationframes her enchanted and enchanting visions, and sometimes passes themupon the senses for reality."
"Yes," said Aunt Margaret, who is a well-read woman, "to those whoresemble the translator of Tasso,
'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'
It is not required for this purpose, that you should be sensible of thepainful horrors which an actual belief in such prodigies inflicts--sucha belief, now-a-days, belongs only to fools and children. It is notnecessary that your ears should tingle, and your complexion change,like that of Theodore, at the approach of the spectral huntsman. Allthat is indispensable for the enjoyment of the milder feeling ofsupernatural awe is, that you should be susceptible of the slightshuddering which creeps over you when you hear a tale of terror--thatwell-vouched tale which the narrator, having first expressed hisgeneral disbelief of all such legendary lore, selects and produces, ashaving something in it which he has been always obliged to give up asinexplicable. Another symptom is, a momentary hesitation to look roundyou, when the interest of the narrative is at the highest; and thethird, a desire to avoid looking into a mirror, when you are alone, inyour chamber, for the evening. I mean such are signs which indicate thecrisis, when a female imagination is in due temperature to enjoy aghost story. I do not pretend to describe those which exp
ress the samedisposition in a gentleman."
"This last symptom, dear aunt, of shunning the mirror, seems likely tobe a rare occurrence amongst the fair sex."
"You are a novice in toilet fashions, my dear kinsman. All womenconsult the looking-glass with anxiety before they go into company; butwhen they return home, the mirror has not the same charm. The die hasbeen cast-the party has been successful or unsuccessful, in theimpression which she desired to make. But, without going deeper intothe mysteries of the dressing-table, I will tell you that I myself,like many other honest folk, do not like to see the blank black frontof a large mirror in a room dimly lighted, and where the reflection ofthe candle seems rather to lose itself in the deep obscurity of theglass, than to be reflected back again into the apartment. That spaceof inky darkness seems to be a field for Fancy to play her revels in.She may call up other features to meet us, instead of the reflection ofour own; or, as in the spells of Hallowe'en, which we learned inchildhood some unknown form may be seen peeping over our shoulder. Inshort, when I am in a ghost-seeing humour, I make my handmaiden drawthe green curtains over the mirror, before I go into the room, so thatshe may have the first shock of the apparition, if there be any to beseen. But, to tell you the truth, this dislike to look into a mirror inparticular times and places, has, I believe, its original foundation ina story which came to me by tradition from my grandmother, who was aparty concerned in the scene of which I will now tell you."